


Lighthouse

by concavepatterns



Category: Captain America (Movies)
Genre: Boys In Love, Bucky Barnes Recovering, Hand Jobs, M/M, Oblivious Steve Rogers, Post-Captain America: The Winter Soldier, Swearing, like it's going out of style, so much swearing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-06-04
Updated: 2016-06-04
Packaged: 2018-07-12 02:47:52
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,168
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7081825
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/concavepatterns/pseuds/concavepatterns
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Steve smiles at him and it’s steady and true, guiding him in from the storm.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Lighthouse

**Author's Note:**

> I'm trying to write these two out of my system. So far it’s failing spectacularly.
> 
> There's one line of Russian here. If you hover over it with your cursor, you'll see the translation. I've also added it in a note at the bottom. :)

 

It’s the nights that are the hardest, but not in the way you’d expect.

Night is when the glow of the sunset bathes Steve’s apartment in muted gold. It’s when Steve sits on the edge of the sofa closest to the window, graphite pencil and well-worn sketchbook in hand. It’s when his attention is elsewhere, so Bucky can stare openly, unabashedly, _greedily_ , and not feel quite so guilty about it. It’s when he suffers through the best kind of torture he’s ever endured.

The more he stares - memorizing the line Steve’s mouth makes when he’s deep in thought, the fan of his eyelashes as he dips his head down in intent focus, the way his hand moves skillfully over his blank sheet of paper - the more he _wants_.

It’s a strange, tight and breathless feeling centered in his chest. One that he thinks is familiar, but some days the border between what’s real and what isn’t (lies fed to him by HYDRA, vivid nightmares that leave him shaking, damp with sweat as the mechanics in his arm shift and hum in anxious preparation) feels too thin for him to know if anything’s for certain.

But this...this he needs to know. Is it the truth or just another byproduct of the tangled, distant half-memories in his head?

Bucky can’t trust himself to answer that, which means the only other option is asking Steve.

Shit.

“Something on your mind, Buck?” As if thinking the name has summoned him, Rogers glances up from his sketchbook, hand hovering over the page, and all Bucky can focus on is the way his fingers idly play with his pencil. It makes it hard for him to get the words out.

“Did –” his voice is rough, a little croaky from disuse. He has to pause to clear his throat. “Did we ever -”

Steve frowns, using the pencil to mark his page as he flips the book shut, setting it aside and fuck, now Bucky’s got his full attention. Because _that’s_ going to make this a hell of a lot easier.

“Ever what?”

Bucky rakes a hand through his hair, wondering how to best explain it, because what if Steve says no? What if he says _yes?_

The possibility of that makes his lungs squeeze even tighter.

“Back then,” he manages to get out with what little air he has left. “You ‘n me.”

Steve makes an apologetic face. “Sorry, Buck. I’m gonna need a little more to go on.”

Of course he does.

Bucky heaves a mental sigh, tries to translate that tight squeeze in his chest into words that will make sense, but he comes up empty. It’s like there’s a disconnect between his mind and his mouth. A roadblock between how he feels and what he wants to say; tall and wide and really fucking irritating.

For a minute he resigns himself to simply staring at Steve, willing him to understand through the sheer force of his glare, but Steve only blinks back, expression still hopelessly lost.

Damn it, Rogers.

Trying a new tactic, Bucky stands up, takes a side-step to the right, and sits himself back down, now so close that his shoulder almost brushes Steve’s own.

Contact’s still been hard some days - being the one to initiate it even harder - and surprise shows for an instant on Steve’s face before he thinks to hide it. The edge of his mouth still twitches though, as if he’s trying to fight a huge, pleased grin. It makes Bucky’s blood run warmer than usual and he feels the heat travel up to flood his face, wishing he’d put on something lighter than the thick, dark hoodie that’s effectively baking him now thanks to that damn smile.

He ignores the discomfort easily (it’s nothing compared to what the Asset’s endured from his handlers; what he’s faced in even the most routine of missions), instead focusing his attention on the dopey, fond expression Steve’s wearing. It should look ridiculous, make him laugh or roll his eyes or spit out a good-natured insult, but instead it leaves him burning even hotter and he can hear his heart whispering along with every quickened beat: _want want want_.

With that little bit of encouragement to push him forward, Bucky stretches out his right hand and presses his palm to Steve’s chest.

Steve’s breath hitches at the contact and he stops breathing altogether for eight painstakingly long seconds, but then his chest resumes rising and falling under the soft weight of Bucky’s hand.

“Did we ever?” Bucky asks again, voice gone thick and rough as his fingers slide higher until his thumb’s skimming over Steve’s neck, feeling his pulse beating hard, and if Rogers doesn’t understand now, then he’s even more of a moron than Bucky - admittedly vaguely - remembers.

Steve makes a strangled noise, lips parting slightly, but no words come out.

“I have pictures,” Bucky attempts to explain, mainly to bridge the ever-increasing gap of silence that’s stretching out between them. “In my head. Don’t know if they’re memories or...” He doesn’t finish, doesn’t quite know _how_ to finish, so he lets the end of the sentence drop off with a weak shrug.

Another minute ticks by in which Steve swallows hard, opens and closes his mouth twice more, and then he finally manages a slightly hoarse reply of, “Or what?”

Somehow they’ve shifted, turned sideways to face each other head on, and Bucky is immediately reminded of just how blue Steve’s eyes are. Not that he could ever really forget. HYDRA might have fucked up his head, but some things just stay with you; a memory so strong and sharp, it doesn’t live in your brain but deep down in your bones instead.

“Or what, Buck?” Steve repeats, and that’s when Bucky comes back to himself, realizing that he’s been staring at Steve’s face for much too long now. He forces his eyes down and to the right, focused slightly over the slope of Steve’s shoulder. A shoulder that’s broad, hugged by a shirt that’s soft and thin and at least a size too small. It’s not all that much better.

Distracting shoulder width aside, Bucky still doesn’t respond right away. His answer is going to be important, he knows, and he needs to choose his words carefully. To make sure Steve understands.

“Dreams,” he starts slowly. Pauses. Wets his lips before eyes flick back up to Steve’s. “Fantasies, maybe.”

“Oh.” Steve’s reply comes out on a rush of breath, like he’s been punched in the stomach. “Oh,” he says again, and suddenly his hand is on Bucky’s knee and he’s leaning fractionally closer, face a mess of emotions that Bucky can’t decipher.

“I need to know,” Bucky speaks quietly, laying all his cards on the table, hoping that he looks stronger than he feels because right now he’s all thin and brittle glass. “Because I want. Christ, Steve - _I_ _want_.” His voice breaks a little at the end and in response Steve’s pulse jumps under his fingertips, a subtle reminder that he’s still been touching all this time, and Steve – because he’s Steve; good and enduring to the point of being flawed – hasn’t said a damn thing about it.

Fuck.

Bucky abruptly yanks his hand away and it falls back down into his lap heavily, tingling like the heat of Steve’s skin has burned a permanent mark into his own.

Steve’s expression is an odd mixture of relief and heartache as he wets his lips, taking a shaky breath before he finally begins to speak, voice strained and halting. “We never - but I wanted to - God, did I ever want to. _Still_ want to.” He inclines his head, a faint blush colouring his cheeks as he copies Bucky’s earlier action, bringing a hand up and cupping the side of his jaw. The skin is slightly calloused and Bucky’s stomach flips oddly at the touch. “Tell me if this isn’t okay. If it’s too much.”

The pressure is light; conveying all affection and no harsh authority. Bucky feels his heartbeat quicken, but it isn’t a panicked, fight or flight kind of tempo. It’s something good and familiar and only a little bit frightening.

“ ‘s good,” he murmurs, eyes dropping to focus on Steve’s mouth. It’s close. Real close. He wonders what it tastes like.

“Good,” Steve echoes, and an instant later, Bucky doesn’t have to wonder anymore.

It’s chaste, just a soft press of Steve’s mouth against his, but still long and deliberate enough to make Bucky’s body react. He feels lightheaded. Bright. Weightless. Euphoric. It’s...God, it’s fucking _perfect_.

They pull apart gradually, reluctantly, breaths still mingling. Steve’s nose rubs along his cheek and at some point his hand has migrated up to tangle in Bucky’s hair. Not that he’s complaining.

“Why the hell didn’t we do that seventy years ago?” Bucky gives a low groan when Steve dips his head to briefly explore the skin below his ear.

“Because we’re idiots,” Steve returns against his neck, and when he straightens back up, he’s breathing hard; eyes a deep, glittering blue while a hot flush is creeping down his neck.

For a second, all Bucky can do is stare, momentarily stunned by the thought of _I did that to him_. Captain America. All red, white and blue in the most unvirtuous kind of way.

When his voice eventually returns, he blurts out the first thing he thinks of. “Speak for yourself, pal.”

Steve’s eyebrows shoot up into his hairline and Bucky’s a second away from pulling back, cringing, pleading apologies until his voice goes hoarse, but then Steve _laughs_ and the sound is pure comfort wrapping around him. Steve’s voice carries warm, blinding sunshine. It’s the best fucking thing Bucky’s ever heard. He wants to make him do it again. Multiple times. Every damn day.

With that in mind, Bucky gives control over to his mouth, not censoring his thoughts as he says, “Think you should kiss me again.”

It earns him another chuckle, this time accompanied by one of those wide, dopey grins.

Perfect.

“So you insult me and then expect to be rewarded for it?” Steve questions, fighting to keep his voice stern despite the note of happy amusement that’s bleeding in around the edges.

“You gonna complain or are you gonna let me get my mouth on you?” Bucky shoots back, aiming for humor, but not quite reaching it. His voice sounds too raw and cracked. His hands itch to touch.

He can almost feel the exact moment his words cause a shift in the air between them; teasing giving way to something deeper. Weighty. Significant.

Steve goes still, just long enough for Bucky to think that he should start to panic, that he pushed too far and fucked everything up, but then all the air leaves Steve’s lungs as he rasps, “God, Bucky,” and he’s moving towards him with a groan that’s all long-starved desperation.

It’s heated this time; greedy and eager. Steve’s mouth is hot and firm as his hands go to Bucky’s hips and Bucky pushes into the touch, needing to be closer, working Steve back further and further until he’s reclined on the sofa, pinned under Bucky’s weight.

 _Want, want, want_. It’s a constant stream in his head, his lungs, and now it travels lower until he’s achingly stiff and his skin’s on fire and they’re both panting hard into each others’ mouths.

Bucky sits up just long enough to pull off the furnace of a sweater he’s wearing and then he’s back, rucking Steve’s shirt up, dragging hands down tightly-muscled abs as he angles his head, kiss growing deeper; more intimate.

“If – oh God – just wait for a sec – _fuck_ \- this is important,” Steve gasps out, covering Bucky’s hand with his own to keep it from traveling any further down his stomach. He pauses, takes two deep, shuddering breaths and fixes darkened eyes on Bucky with a serious stare. “If you need to stop you tell me, okay? I’m not gonna make you do anything you don’t want.”

There’s uncompromising steel in his voice, on his face, and Bucky almost smiles. Of course Steve’s still trying to give out orders, even when he’s the one being pressed down with hands all over him.

“Goes both ways,” Bucky says in return, ensuring there’s a heavy seriousness in his own voice. There’s no fucking way he’s going to hurt Steve in any way, shape, or form. Not when the Asset’s already done more than enough damage to last a lifetime; one that’s even as long as theirs. “Wanna take care of you,” he finds himself murmuring, inclining his head and nosing along Steve’s throat. “Wanna make you feel good.”

“ _Buck_ -” Steve chokes on the name, giving up on words entirely as he guides his hand – the one holding Bucky’s – down lower and lower until it’s cupping the hard thickness in his pants.

Bucky wets his lips, heart hammering in his chest as Steve puts pressure on their hands, squeezing lightly, letting Bucky feel him; feel _everything_.

“This okay?” Steve asks and his voice sounds like loose gravel, low and rough in a way Bucky’s never heard before, but could most definitely get used to.

He gives a jerky nod, fingering the zipper on Steve’s pants. “Can I...?”

Steve’s eyes go marginally wider, staring up with a hazy, lust-filled reverent look, like Bucky’s the most amazing thing he’s ever laid eyes on. “Yeah,” he breathes. “God, _yes_.”

He isn’t worthy of a look like that, Bucky thinks, but he’s damn well going to try and earn it.

The zipper comes down easily, impatience meaning neither of them can be bothered to fully remove Steve’s jeans so they stay shoved part way down his hips, just enough for Bucky to get his hand inside, fingers seeking out hot skin under thin fabric. 

At the contact Steve lets out a hiss, trying to arch up into the touch while a soft, emphatic exclamation of _'fuck'_ leaves his mouth. His cheeks are pink, breath ragged, and he looks so goddamn good, it makes Bucky’s whole body ache with feeling. 

He starts slow, rubbing with the heel of his hand, entranced by the different noises it evokes from Steve.  Firm, long strokes earn him a deep and throaty sound. Tightening his grasp at the head, dragging the pad of his thumb over the wetness there, gets him a hoarse, half-broken cry. That one, Bucky thinks, is his favourite.

It's just as he’s settling into a steady, firm rhythm when Steve sucks in a sharp breath, hips trying to lift off the cushions. “ _Ah_ – wait,” he groans out, “gonna make me –”

“That’s kinda what I’m goin’ for.” Bucky grins, pace unrelenting as a warm, satisfied feeling settles in the centre of his chest. God, he could do this every fucking day and never get tired of seeing that naked, blissed-out look on Steve’s face.

“Shut up and c’mere,” Steve orders breathlessly, hand finding the back of Bucky’s neck, and he pulls him down for a kiss so thorough and hungry, Bucky’s pretty damn sure he can feel the precise second when his blood chooses to ignore its usual full-body route in favour of redirecting entirely to his groin.

“Jesus Christ, _Steve._ ” His voice sounds just as wrecked as he feels; raw and cracking and filled with pure need.

He tightens his grip just enough to make Steve choke on a moan, twists his wrist a little on every upstroke now, intent on giving as much – as _good_ \- as he can; feeling drunk on Steve’s pleasure.

After two more swift strokes, Steve’s breath is coming out in quick, shallow gasps against the shell of his ear and then all Bucky can do is watch, mesmerized, soaking everything in. He learns that Steve will make a soft, whining noise when he comes. Will shudder and pant and dig his fingers into Bucky’s sides. Will jerk his hips up and spill hot over his stomach; over Bucky’s hand.

Bucky memorizes every single detail of that moment, tucks it away in his mind like it just might be the best thing he’ll ever get a chance to see.  It probably is.

“Fuck, Stevie, look at you,” he groans, voice dissolving into a string of half-formed curse words when the lax, boneless warmth of Steve’s body under him tenses back up and Steve shifts to snake a hand between their bodies, shoving it down the front of Bucky’s sweats and curling a large, hot palm around him.

_Oh._

Holy fuck.

“Check in with me,” Steve murmurs lowly, and then his hand _moves_ ; a long, hot pull of skin over skin that has Bucky’s brain short-circuiting like it’s just been put through a fucking blender. “How’re you doing?” 

He bites his lip, pressing his forehead to Steve’s, finally managing to gasp out, "Я пиздец как люблю тебя."

“My Russian is rusty,” Steve admits, and from the way his own breathing has suddenly picked back up, panting almost as hard as Bucky, it looks like getting drunk on the act of giving alone might just be a mutual thing. “You’re good? With this?”

“Yeah,” Bucky rasps, finally finding English again although his vocabulary feels pretty fucking limited right now. “Yes - so fuckin’ good, I - _God_ \- yeah.”

“Good.” Steve’s response is little more than a low, husky growl. “I like making you slip. Making you lose yourself like that.”

“ _Jesus_.”  That tone, that confession, is all Bucky needs to tip over the edge. He’s been painfully hard for what feels like hours now, so in barely any time at all he’s gasping for air, thrusting into Steve’s grip, and he learns that _he_ will bury his face in the crook of Steve’s neck. That he’ll give a long, throaty moan as he falls apart. That the leftover pieces of him will slowly realign when Steve murmurs nonsensical praises in his ear and runs fingers through tangled, dark hair.

Steve’s always been able to anchor him like that, Bucky thinks afterwards (lying cramped and close and sweaty on the sofa, but you couldn’t fucking _pay_ him to move right now) and he’s always done the same for Steve in return. He doesn’t need memories to know that. Doesn’t need Steve to confirm it, either. He can feel the truth of it in his core.

They’re like lighthouses, steady and true, meant to guide each other in from the storm; one faithfully pulling the other back home any time they’ve gone adrift.

It’s probably a dumb thing to say and he’s not even sure if Steve will understand, so instead Bucky stretches up, kisses him long and soft on the mouth. Murmurs, “You’ve got me.”

When he draws away, Steve’s doing that dopey smile thing again, only this time it’s all soft and sated and a little wet at the corners. Somehow it’s even more fucking gorgeous than before.

“Always,” Steve answers, voice strong and blue eyes constant as ever as they find his. “Always, Buck.”

 

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> Я пиздец как люблю тебя = I fucking love you. Because apparently my version of Bucky has some kind of daily quota of curse words that must be met.


End file.
